Tuesday, December 31

 Somewhere in the dim past I decided to discontinue writing the year when I dated my blog posts.  I have no recollection that I ever used the full date but as a new year beckons I suppose I should have given the labelling more thought.  After all, when a future biographer is looking for evidence of what I was thinking at a particular time in history, knowing what year it is might be an advantage.

The weather is beautiful on the final day of 2024.  I've already put out our FOGO bin and Marilyn tells me there is an extra household rubbish collection this week, so that will have to go out too.  Why do they pick New Years Day for extra work?  Do they have to bring in extra staff?  If so, how much will the extra wages be, all at double time or more?

But, it's not my problem.

Monday, December 30

 I've been trying to find a local gardener to trim some bushes, particularly at the side of the house.  It's the season for rapid growth, of course, so I've had no success.  So, I rang Jamie and asked him to bring some tools so we could have a go at it ourselves.  Today was the day.

It's a bit overcast so we decided to start early. I took a pair of clippers and began at the front of the hedge but Jamie took a serious hacking machine and attacked the thicker branches.  It's looking alright but there are a couple of rough patches where we got a bit too enthusiastic.  Still, by this time next year we won't even notice.

We have a huge pile of offcuts now so I'll have to borrow a couple of FOGO bins from the neighbours to get rid of it.

Here's one of my favourite stories: The Missing Postman from 2021.

THE MISSING POSTMAN                                                                     AUGUST 27, 2021

If anyone asked what he did, Wayne would tell them he was the Missing Postman.  Sometimes, people would ask him what he meant because, in their simple understanding, he was there in front of them so, clearly, not missing at all.  Wayne would just smile and change the subject.

It wasn’t surprising that people came to think that Wayne was a little odd, if not seriously disturbed.

In fact, Wayne was employed by the Post Office to make enquiries when postal items went astray.  He was the man who looked after the Post that was Missing.  He was the Missing Post Man.

If you knew Wayne, you would wonder how he kept his job.  He was certainly no intellectual giant and he had an irritating habit of constantly singing old Everley Brothers songs in a low monotone voice.  More than one fellow-employee had asked for a transfer after one too many choruses of Bye Bye Love.

But, Wayne was always neatly dressed; his mother ironed a fresh shirt for him every morning, and he was generous in helping out when anyone needed an hour or two off for personal business.  Most importantly, no one else was prepared to take on the job of Missing Post Man.  It was a thankless task with little hope of promotion.  The incumbent had only a tiny cubby-hole to work from.  Some wag once dubbed this the Dead Letter Office and the name stuck. 

The general feeling among the staff was that the job of Missing Postman was the end of the line, the job you were given when Head Office thought you should be put out to pasture.  And, of course, no one can be sacked from the Public Service; it is a well-known fact that every Public Service Department has a designated number of positions which are so mind-numbingly boring that their sole purpose is to make life so miserable for the incumbent that a resignation will inevitably follow.

Somehow, Wayne thrived in his hovel of an office.  He always had a tiny vase of fresh flowers and his desk was the tidiest in the whole department.  He brought polish from home and every Monday morning, all the furniture was treated to a spruce-up.  Wayne was held up to the other staff as a model employee, whose example others should follow. 

Perhaps, his supervisors should have looked at how successful he was in discovering the whereabouts of missing postal items before holding him up as a shining example of what a good employee should look like.  In short, his success rate was appalling.  Apart from the odd letter from the bank or electricity bill, he found almost nothing that had gone astray. 

Wayne was not very bright, but he was certainly sharp enough to know when a good scheme should come to an end.  One Monday morning, Wayne didn’t show up to work.  No one was worried; he wasn’t a vital cog in the wheel and everyone assumed his mother would ring at some stage to say that he had a cold.  Another day passed, and another and someone thought, perhaps, a ‘phone call to his mother might be a good idea.

His mother was surprised to receive the call. Didn’t they realise that Wayne had been sent off to Canberra for special training before he took on his new job as Controller of Misplaced Parcels?  This announcement caused much consternation in the office.  Surely, it couldn’t be true.  Even the public service wouldn’t be stupid enough to promote Wayne to any position of authority.

The wheels of the Public Service grind slowly but, eventually, an investigation was launched to inquire into the matter. A panel of eminent retired senior officers from the department was charged with finding out what had happened to Wayne and were there any extenuating circumstances which should be taken into account.  The matter was certainly helped by the arrival of a postcard from Wayne, now resident in a South American country which, as it happens, has no extradition treaty with Australia.

A picture was emerging that Wayne had been up to no good, and diligent digging unearthed the truth that, for years, Wayne had been stealing parcels and other mail and, as the Missing Postman, he had been able to cover up the theft quite easily. He focused on birthday and Christmas cards which might have a banknote tucked into them, and parcels from ebay and other mail order companies, which were all covered by insurance so nobody would make a fuss if they didn’t arrive.

Few people in the Post Office had ever given Wayne a second thought but now the Legend of the Missing Postman will live for ever.

Sunday, December 29

We're in that lull after Christmas when nothing much is happening, when people wonder what all the fuss was about and why there was such an assault on their finances.  We're having a quiet day, not exactly licking our wounds but rather asking ourselves is it all worth it.

We're better off than most in that we don't need to overspend on expensive gifts, we're not locked in to lavish feats and we can use the excuse of old age to avoid the many celebrations.  

Nevertheless, I slept in until 7.30 this morning and my usual waking time is more like 6.30.  Was it tiredness that kept my eyes shut, or was it the sleep of the righteousness, knowing I hadn't burnt the candle at both ends, or spent too much, or said something I shouldn't to someone?

I like to think it's a little bit of all of those things.

Friday, December 27

 Last night's shindig at Jamie and Nera's was its usual success. I tucked myself into a corner with another couple of Australians and we let all the revelry happen without us.  A whole roast pig was delivered and demolished, games were played and a good time was had by all.

Today is very quiet.  It's almost as if the whole world has slowed down to catch its breath.  

Today's story is about another New Year's tradition.

NOSTALGIA: SCOTTISH HOGMANAY                                                                MAY 29, 2020

The most important celebration in my family’s calendar was New Year’s Eve, although it was always Hogmanay to us.  I think all my parent’s nostalgic feelings for what they had left behind in Scotland were expressed in that one fantastic evening.

The Chinese make a fuss about their New Year, and cities like Sydney spend millions on fireworks displays but for drunken, maudlin sentimentality, the Scots win every time.

Our New Year celebrations started a couple of days earlier when Mum gave the house a serious clean.  Windows were thrown open and every corner checked twice. Even the chimney was swept.  Special food was prepared: a large pot of soup, griddle scones, shortbread, and black bun, and Dad made sure there was at least one bottle of whisky in the house.  My father never drank but it would have been unthinkable not to have a bottle handy to offer a dram to those who came by.  All the male guests at the party brought a bottle of whisky, whether they drank or not, although most enjoyed a dram, and the remains of their bottle went home with them at the end of the evening

The parties at our house always started with the retelling of old stories, reminiscing and singing old Scottish songs; special favourites were the Music Hall songs of Harry Lauder: I Belong to Glasgow and Stop Your Tickling, Jock but, as the night progressed, the songs became more Irish and melancholy: Danny Boy and I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen.  The combination of whisky, memories and sad, familiar songs brought tears to many eyes. When people tired of singing, they played records by Kenneth MacKellar and Moira Anderson.  Some years, a piper might come and all of the street would be entertained by his music

My family always stuck to the old traditions and superstitions.  I remember one time, when I was 11 or 12, I went to the outside laundry just before midnight to get a soft drink from the ice box.  While I was there I heard the chimes on the radio signalling that it was midnight, and then I heard the sound of the back door being locked.  I was shut out.  I had committed the mistake of being outside the house when the chimes rang and I wasn’t allowed back in until after the first visitor of the New Year arrived.

The first visitor or ‘First Footer’ was expected to be a dark-haired man carrying gifts for the house: a piece of cake or shortbread, a piece of coal, a small coin, and a dram of whisky, of course.  These gifts were to symbolise the wish that the household would have food and fuel and fortune in the coming year.  The fact that he had to be dark-haired harked back to the old days when people feared that the person knocking on the door might be a Viking and, of course, everyone knew that all Vikings had fair hair and were dangerous. It felt like hours that I waited and I can’t remember who it was who arrived to allow me entry to the house.

Like all traditions, Hogmanay has evolved over time.  Once it was celebrated in much the same way in Scotland and by Scottish ex-pats in other countries.  Perhaps it is still celebrated in the old way in parts of the old country but it is more likely that our modern celebrations in Australia involve a bucket of prawns and watching fireworks on the TV.

We can be nostalgic for the old times but it’s impossible to expect things to stay always as they were. 

Thursday, December 26

 We're about to have lunch and in a couple of hours Jamie will pick us up to take us to Hadspen where there is to be yet another filipino Christmas 'do'.  They really know how to enjoy themselves and they regard us as honorary members of their club.  We avoided Tuesday's 'do' but, because today's shindig is at Jamie and Nera's, we will be there.  I would be happy to drive but Jamie insists on picking us up.  His excuse is that parking will be an issue and, while there may be some truth in that, he may be just a lkittle bit over-protective.

I had my shower a bit later than usual today and just went out to hang my damp towels on the clothesline.  The concrete path there is a bit narrow with the air-conditioning unit on one side and an overgrown garden on the other.  I don't know what the plants are but they've grown to be about 2m tall, with large glossy leaves and white flowers.   They need to be cut back but I have neither the tools nor the knowledge to do it.  We've been allocated funding to employ a gardener but haven't been able to find one for a couple of years.  There must be someone out there who needs to earn a quid but they never seem to cross our path.

And every day, the problem grows.

Wednesday, December 25

 At the risk of repeating myself, I need to say (again) that Christmas is not what it used to be.  I've been up for an hour and I haven't heard a squeak from outside.  I might have expected, at some point, to hear some traffic as people drove back to the family home for Christmas dinner.  I've long given up expecting to see and hear children riding up and down the streets on their new bikes; it's more likely they're indoors playing with their iPads.  In fact, I couldn't tell you if there are any children living in this street.  There's a baby in Number 44 as we sometime hear her crying, and there used to be two boys in the house opposite but we haven't seen them for years.

There's a primary school at the top of the street so there must be some kids in this area but you never see them playing in the street or even in their yards.

One sound I can hear is the sound of garbage trucks.  Yes, we're having a garbage collection this Christmas morning.  What will be next - the postman?  When did we become so blase about things?

It's not like the old days!

Marilyn's just getting breakfast ready:  cream cheese and ham on a croissant.  What's the world coming to?

Tuesday, December 24

A Christmas Eve tradition which has arisen in the last few years is for all the local filipino community to get together on Christmas Eve.  It's often been at Jamie and Nera's place because they have a bit more room than many of the others.  However, this year another of the group is hosting it.  Errie is a filipina who is married to Chris, an Australian fellow, and they have just moved into a new unit.  They're understandably keen to show off their new abode and tonight is their chance.  Marilyn and I are invited and are expected to bring something to share.  I'll prepare one of my celebrated fruit platters and Jamie has been here this morning to make sure I understand the parameters: what size platter, what fruit I should use, there must be licorice allsorts, etc.  I've already forgotten what he suggested and will just do it as I always have.

What's that adage about teaching your granny to suck eggs?

Monday, December 23

 A post from the Longford Tasmania Community Facebook Page, December 23rd, 2024.

Jai Erika Thomson - Hope everyone's day is going good.

Does anyone have any sheep to loan for maybe a week?

My mother in law's yard needs doing and she cannot afford someone to come in and mow it and her lawnmower isn't working to do it herself?  Please and thankyou"

John Morgan - So what street are we talking about?

Jai Erika Thomson -  piss off John I already know what your upto .. you been giving my daughter shit for the past 6 months.

John Morgan - you are full of shit

Just another day in paradise.

Sunday, December 22

We've discovered a new fellow to watch on Youtube.  He's a German fellow called Ken who produces all his videos in English.  The site is called Ken Abroad.  He has the knack of being able to talk non-stop so we never lose touch with the experience.  He's in Asia at the moment, making his way through China.  We love the way he uses his 'phone as a translator so he's not limited in what he can do. 

Saturday. December 21

We had to pop up the shops this morning for one or two items and we noticed that our little supermarket is getting geared up for the Christmas rush.  There are many new, specialist products so they make space for them by putting display boxes in the middle of the aisles. At the same time, they bring in extra staff to look after the extra customers and, to keep them busy, they have them re-stacking shelves,  The process for that is to get a 6 foot-tall trolley, loaded with products, then push it to the area where the re-stocking is needed and plonk it in the middle of the aisle while you laboriously move individual items to the appropriate shelf.

The customers also have their part to play.  The secret is, when you have to pause to take something from the shelf, make sure you place your trolley at right angles to the flow of traffic so that you impede everyone's passage.  Oh, and even if you only want one or two small items, still take a trolley.  If you're a Mum, make sure you bring all your kids with you; maybe borrow one or two from the neighbours as well.  Prime them up to ask loudly for all the bright, shiny things they see but make sure you buy them nothing to keep their complaining at the highest possible level.

Christmas after all, is the happiest time of the year.

Friday, December 20

 My regular routine in the summer is to water in the morning. It's not a difficult chore but I'm lazy and look for any excuse to avoid it.  This morning I couldn't overlook the dry patches in the lawn any longer so I decided to feed the grass with Weed'n'Feed.  There were few weeds popping up their heads so I chipped them out, raked them up and fed them to the FOGO bin.  Now, I'm exhausted.

The Coles man has arrived with our order so I have just enough energy left to help Marilyn pack things away and get rid of the inevitable rubbish.  We used to save the bags but now we just shove them in the recycling.

Life gets tedious, don't it!  Remember that song?

BLACK PEARL                                                                                              03 July 2020                                                                                                                                                 

One time, in our travels, we found ourselves in the Philippines.  On this particular day, we were travelling to the island of Mindoro and we had been promised that it was famous for its white sand beach and its black pearls.  Locals told us the pearls were found in the Sulu Sea and were better quality than the more famous Tahitian black pearls.  But they would say that, wouldn’t they?

There were regular modern ferries which travelled to the island and the fare was only $8 but our hosts were determined to give us an experience to remember, so we lined up on the beach to embark on a traditional wooden banca.  We removed our shoes and I rolled up my trouser legs as the waves seemed to be getting higher.  It was Typhoon season and being on the open sea in a wooden boat didn’t appeal to me.  However, after a rather wet trip, we arrived safely and took a jeepney ride to the famous beach.

We had been warned about the hawkers who went along the beach looking for tourists to scam.  All the markets and street pedlars in the Philippines, it seems, are controlled by criminal gangs from Mindanao.  Young people are recruited to spend a few months in some market or resort area trying to extract money from tourists looking for a bargain and it wasn’t long before a clean-cut young man accosted us, saying “Would ma’am like to see some beautiful black pearls?”

My wife was unsure, remembering her grandmother’s warning that black pearls were unlucky but he reached into his bag, took out a velvet pouch and revealed a full string of black pearls.  He whipped out a cigarette lighter, ran the flame along the pearls to prove they were real and suggested a price. My wife was smitten and would have accepted but I know what is expected and suggested a lower price. We haggled for a bit and soon agreed on what was fair. 

Buoyed by my success I decided I needed to buy a watch and asked him if he had an Omega Chronograph.  “Yes, sir,” he replied, hurrying away and coming back with a stunning watch and quoted what I thought was a ridiculously low price.  More haggling ensued and agreement was reached.  The watchband needed a link taken from it so the young man crouched down on the sand and took out the appropriate tools from his bag and the job was done.

It was time for lunch so we headed off to find our friends.  We had clearly been identified as ‘soft touches’ so were surrounded by other hawkers as we headed for the restaurant.  They jostled us, pulled at our clothes to attract our attention and generally were a nuisance but eventually we arrived where we were going.  I was keen to show off my new purchase but, when I held up my arm, the watch was gone!  During the short walk from the beach to the restaurant, the watch had disappeared from my wrist.

I know it was a scam, and I can’t work out how they did it, but I hate to admit I have been fooled so I am blaming the incident on the Curse of the Black Pearl.  I know my wife agrees because she has never worn the pearls since, just in case something else goes wrong.

Thursday, December 19

 Jamie dropped in yesterday morning.  We see him most days when he drops Archie off on his way to whatever he has to do but yesterday he had a different idea.  He had to take Nera's nephew, Brendan, to Deloraine where he had been offered a day's work at the nursing home.  Brendan's studying, of course, but is on break at the moment and can work as much as he likes.  Jamie's idea was to take Archie to the Westbury Town Common where there's an off-leash dog area where Archie loves to explore.  And he offered to take me with them to give me a break from the house.

I knew what he was really saying: take the old bloke for an airing and give Mum a break to herself.  So, off we went.  The Common is a great area with intersecting paths.  I can't walk much anymore but I had my stick and headed for a little hut not far away. Sitting there watching Archie snuffle away, I noticed three kids heading towards me, with a couple of women not far behind.  I thought they had noticed Archie and had come to see him but they were intent on talking to me.

They were called Hamish, Connor and, I think, Jack and Connor was keen to tell me he was wearing his father's hat.  Thery chatted with me for ten minutes then their mother dragged them away for their walk.  Things like that don't happen to me very often; I suspect I don't wear a welcoming expression on my face so people tend to avoid 'that dour old bugger'.

That little walk registered 884 steps on my smart watch for a total of 2039 for the day.

At the coffee shop afterwards (we always have coffee when we go to Westbury), there was a bloke sitting on his own in the corner.  He also wanted a chat and told us he was from Toowoomba, travelling alone in an old camper van.  He comes to Tasmania every year, apparently, driving down the New England Highway to get the ferry to Devonport.  He's escaping from the Queensland summer.  Westbury has a free camping area so he sets up here for a few days before moving on.  He's on his own so I'm not surprised he tries to chat with strangers in coffee shops.

Wednesday, December 18

When Marilyn comes home from her various functions she invariably brings prizes she has won.  She always wins prizes at the Bingo and I've already mentioned that she won the Christmas Hamper at the last function she attended.  Yesterday, she was going to another function and I suggested she let someone else win this time.  But, when she arrived home she had a woman with her carrying a big box.  What! Another prize?

But it wasn't.  The big box contained a whizbang cooking implement which the woman wanted rid of. Thrift shops wouldn't take it because it was electrical so she was considering taking it to the tip, but it had cost hundreds of dollars when new and was still in good condition.  Marilyn kindly agreed to offer it to our friends.  Of course, everybody has an air fryer now and doesn't need anything else so Jamie has taken it to shove in his shed.  The world has moved on when we weren't paying attention.

Nothing much is happening today as we count down to Christmas.

Tuesday, December 17

 Marilyn's getting ready for her regular Craft group which will leave me at home for the morning.  I don't mind a couple of hours to myself occasionally but can't imagine how I would cope if I were cut off from other people for a longer period.  Being left alone when you're older must be one of the worst things to happen to someone.  I'll manage to fill in my couple of hours of solitude this morning very happily this morning but will be delighted when Marilyn's back.

I've just turned off the TV from my morning trawl through Youtube.  Today I watched Scott trying to travel from Scotland to Istanbul for less than 100 pounds (he failed), someone called Kuga travel on trains around North America and a couple whose name I can't remember on a train in India..  I don't only watch videos about trains but, as we don't have trains in Tasmania, it's all a bit exotic to me.

Marilyn wandered through and noticed there was a video about the winner of Strictly Come Dancing and another post by Brogan who was packing for a skiing trip.  Where we always aimed to travel light when we were packing, that was not Brogan's focus.  Where we might have packed one scarf, Brogan would need at least three to match her various outfits.  So, the TV was on for a bit longer than usual this morning.

Monday, December 16

They're predicting 29 degrees today; it's overcast so it will be humid.  We have nothing planned and I imagine we'll stay indoors.  Gone are the days when the period leading up to Christmas was frantically busy with frequent trips to the shops and desperate cleaning of the house.  Nowadays, all the Christmas food will be delivered to our door, any gifts we need to buy will come from Temu or Amazon and the television will keep us entertained and up-to-date with what's happening. 

We're watching a Youtube video of a fellow called Noel Phillips traveling to the island of St Helena.  Noel himself is a bit of a pain in the neck but he manages to get to places we can only imagine and, apparently, he makes a very good living doing it. Who would have thought that travelling the world with a GoPro camera could be a sensible career choice.  Marilyn says if I don't agree with his career choice I shouldn't watch it.  And, probably, I'm only jealous.

RIGHT PLACE, RIGHT TIME                                                                             0CT0BER 21, 2022

I suppose all of us at some time have looked back on our lives and wondered why they have turned out as they have.  What was the circumstance or set of circumstances which set us on the path which led us to the place we now occupy?  Can we identify one event which steered us in a particular direction?  I’ve spoken to friends about this: Derek told me it was the day he walked past an Army Recruiting Centre in London and thought “Why not?”.  That decision led to a long career in the Royal Marines.

Virginia says it was the day she looked at her doctor boyfriend and realised she couldn’t envisage a life as a doctor’s wife, said ‘Goodbye’ to him and applied for a teacher’s job in a different city.  People’s lives are often multi-dimensional, with twists and turns which demand decisions which will likely have unforeseen effects into the future.

It’s hard to pick a point in my life which was any more consequential than any other.  Was it the time I realised Accountancy was not for me and I stepped onto the path to becoming a teacher?  Or was it the time my wife and I decided that our child deserved a better education than was being offered in our Sydney suburb and made the significant move to Hobart?

Among all the crossroads on my life’s path, one stands out as being somewhat different to the others.  It doesn’t involve career or family; rather it opened my eye to a different way of looking at the world and gave me a new appreciation of what can be regarded as valuable outside the narrow focus of the middle-class lifestyle I was shaping for myself and my family.

I was teaching in a small independent school in Sydney, responsible for a class of Years 3 and 4 students, laying the groundwork for a career which might eventually provide the sort of lifestyle I anticipated: a suburban home with a mortgage, enough money to have occasional overseas holidays and 2.4 children who would look after my wife and me in old age.  In the middle of a Maths lesson one day, the Principal appeared at my door with a young man, clean shaven but hair a little longer than usual.  He was dressed in khaki shirt and trousers, with solid boots and a rather anxious expression on his face.

The Principal said, “When you’re free, have a chat with Jim.  He has an interesting proposition for us”.  It was almost break time so I wound up the lesson and we each pulled up a chair.

Jim was no salesman but he was certainly persuasive.  He told me about an organisation called Ausventure which had established an Outdoor Education Centre in Kangaroo Valley south of Sydney.   They were encouraging school groups to come for week-long courses which would introduce students to activities such as canoeing, rock climbing, caving and so on.  They also ran camps during school holidays, some specifically for children with disabilities, including Autism.

I couldn’t have imagined then how much my life would change following that twenty-minute conversation.  The initial visit with my class led on to more and more trips until my wife and I were spending most of our school holidays in that environment.

Ausventure’s philosophy was to get the children out of their comfortable middle-class existences, allow them to get dirty, wet and cold, give them wholesome but unremarkable food and avoid distractions like television.  Nobody told our students when it was time to shower or when it was time to change their clothes.  We spent the days exploring the local bushland and the Kangaroo River.  The children were challenged to make decisions, deal with the consequences of those decisions, take risks and to achieve things they had never faced before.    Some of our students had never before been alone in the dark with no streetlights and only the moon to help them learn about their surroundings. In the evenings, after dinner, we read poetry, told stories and played games.

Through Ausventure, I met people for whom adventure was a way of life: who had climbed in the Himalayas, worked in Antarctica, cycled the Birdsville Track.  I became interested in ecology and protection of the environment and I started to see the value in broadening my life choices and, particularly, broadening the curriculum beyond the ‘three r’s’.

It's no exaggeration to say that meeting Jim and eventually going on to work at Ausventure changed my approach to teaching and, in fact, my approach to life. I was in the right place at the right time and I often wonder what my career would have been like if Jim had gone to the school over the road instead, or my principal had said, ‘No thanks, not interested’. 

Sunday, December 15

It's deathly quiet in Burleigh Street this morning.  The sun is shining and the air is warm so you might expect that there would be people out enjoying the weather. But, no! One of our neighbouring families has a young daughter and we often hear her pottering around in the garden but not today.  In the distance there is a rooster crowing forlornly but we might as well be living on an otherwise deserted planet.

Marilyn spent yesterday putting up our Christmas decorations.  All of them we've had for years and we bring them out from the cupboard faithfully.  There's a small tree which sits on a bookcase, a couple of largish baubles with the names Jamie and Madeleine inscribed on them, a Santa with floppy legs which sits on a bookcase and a single string with a couple of tiny pegs we use to hang any Christmas cards we receive (we have three at the moment).  There's also a sort of wreath which sits in front of the TV.  The Elf on a Shelf I mentioned previously is secreted nearby waiting for someone to stumble upon him.

It's nothing elaborate but it helps to remind us that there's something different about this time of the year.

(Perhaps the most exciting thing to look forward to is a parcel from Temu which should arrive tomorrow,  It will contain some Christmas items, but mainly for us to give away.)

Saturday, December 14

 Apparently, it's about 12.30 and I'm just now getting around writing today's blog. Marilyn had a couple of jobs lined up for me and that's filled my morning.  I was at the local supermarket early for a few groceries, I managed to buy half a dozen date scones at Banjos before they sold out, we've completed a Coles order for delivery tomorrow, and  I've retrieved our miniature Christmas tree from the cupboard along with the box of aged decorations.

Marilyn has now taken on the task of decorating the trees so I can get on with what's really important.  Every year we wonder why we bother; there are no kids to marvel at the display and Christmas is becoming just another commercial opportunity for retailers.  But, we put up the decorations anyway.

Friday, December 13

 Friday, 13th!  Should I be worried?  Nah!

When Marilyn came home from one of her Christmas parties on Tuesday, she was carrying a large box; she had won the Christmas hamper!  The ladies had all donated something, based on the theme of 'green' and Marilyn had the winning ticket.  It was a wonderful array but what caught my eye was a little doll-like figure dressed like a Christmas elf.  Jamie explained it was an 'elf on a shelf' and there was a whole industry devoted to it.

Without going into too much detail, the story is about an elf sent by Santa to keep track of who is being naughty or nice.  Apparently, if you have one in the house you have to keep moving it from one place to another.  Some people play tricks on each other by hiding the elf in unusual places or by setting the elf up in compromising situations.  If you check Google you can find ideas of how to enhance your life by using an elf on the shelf.

Marilyn tucked it into a green Chinese cup we have on the TV stand to get it out of the way, and it stayed there for a couple of days. I noticed this morning that it's disappeared.  I hope I'm not going to be expected to go looking for it.  I'm too old for all this nonsense.  Hopefully, it's just been shoved into a drawer until we happen to have a small visitor who might like it.

Here's a Christmas story based on a real cat I used to know.

A CHRISTMAS CAT                                                                        DECEMBER 2, 2021

Since the children have grown up and left home, Christmas is not such a big deal in our house. Even when the children were bringing some excitement into Christmas Day, our presents to each other would be insignificant: the latest blockbuster novel for me and an inconsequential piece of jewellery for my wife.  Now that we’re on our own, we’ve stopped buying presents for each other and the usual highlight of the day is watching a DVD of Love Actually.

Sometimes, I feel a little guilty that I don’t make more of an effort but the feeling passes and I go back to how it was before: waiting for my wife to take the lead and tell me what’s expected of me at this significant part of the year.

Last year, when we were all feeling in need of a lift, I surprised her by asking what she would like me to get her for Christmas. Her reply shocked me; she said, “I would like you to get me a cat,” 

I’m sure my mouth fell open.  It had never entered my head that she would ask for such a thing.  In fact, I was convinced she would say what she always said in such situations.  “I don’t want anything.  I have enough jewellery and we don’t want any more stuff cluttering up the house.”

“A cat?” I asked. “What do you want with a cat?”

“I’ve always wanted a cat, since I was a little girl,” she said, “And it will be something for mee to cuddle when I’m upset.”

I sensed the implied criticism there but didn’t react. I had thought it was my job to cuddle her when she was upset but I was aware enough not to say anything.  Putting my bruised ego aside, I analysed the situation.  She had asked for a cat and I felt that I had no alternative but to provide one.  I needed a plan of action: get more information, if possible; research how one acquires a cat; are there unforeseen issues I need to consider; put my plan into action.

“Um, what sort of cat did you have in mind?” I asked.  “What colour, for example?”

“I don’t want a kitten and I don’t want a fluffy one that will leave hair all over the furniture,” was her reply.

I rang my friend, Peter, who seemed to be knowledgeable about most things and asked where I could get a cat in time for Christmas. He hummed a little bit and suggested I not go to a pet shop.  “They only deal in kittens,” he said, with authority.  “I would try Launceston Buy, Swap and Sell on Facebook.  They have a special section for pets.”

I’ve never been very sure about Facebook but, with Peter’s help, I navigated the site and found someone in Legana with a mature cat for sale. ‘Not good with children,’ it said but that wouldn’t be a problem.  It was a beautiful Siamese, three years old, called Cappucino because of its colour.  They were having to re-home it because they were going away in their caravan for a year.  I handed over the $50 they asked for, took the basket they threw in with the deal and left the cat with Peter for safe-keeping until Christmas.

I decided a red ribbon around its neck would be a nice touch but doing that was harder than it looked.  A cat’s claws are sharp and Chino, as I had started to call her, was determined not to be co-operative.  It would have to be handed over un-adorned but it’s the thought that counts.

When Christmas morning came around, my wife was enchanted with the beautiful creature that I presented to her.  Chino was a little shy and didn’t immediately allow herself to be cuddled but I was confident that, as the weeks passed, she would become more accustomed to us and allow us to get closer to her.

It’s been a month now and, at last, I can pat her gently without feeling her claws dig into the back of my hand.  She’s stopped lashing out and lacerating my ankles when I pass, and I’ve even heard a little purr from time to time. My wife has stopped sobbing each time she looks at the cat and I’m still hopeful that, maybe, by next Christmas, Chino will allow herself to be cuddled.

And, if all else fails, I can always re-advertise her on Facebook.

Thursday, December 12

 Marilyn has another Christmas function this morning with her Book Club and I'm left to look after Archie.  Yesterday's Probus lunch was a success and we had four or five wives joining us.  Those gatherings are always a bit noisy and I found myself involved in a rather bizarre conversation.  The Probus president was doing the rounds, came up to me and said, "How are you, David?"

I replied, "Try John!"  to which he said, "Oh, we're speaking French are we?"  There's no answer to that.

The strange thing is that yesterday's event was the most enjoyable Probus function I have been to since joining the Longford club. Perhaps I might need to re-think my decision to resign.

Wednesday. December 11

 I'm a bit late getting to the chore of writing the blog but today is the Mens' Probus Christmas Barbecue and I wanted to get my shower out of the way so that Marilyn can have the bathroom.  I don't know why I bother as she's more and more using the ensuite.  It makes sense of course; she can leave her stuff lying around (and there's a fair bit of stuff!) without affecting me.

I suppose I'm looking forward to going to the barbecue.  Marilyn is coming and there might be a few more wives but I gather only five blokes have indicated they are bringing their better half.  I think I'm a bit uncomfortable with male-only organisations.  I've belonged to a couple in the past: Boy Scouts, for example but I cut my ties with the last one in about 1972.  That's over fifty years so it's a bit late to change my preferences now.  

A van just drove into our yard.  Clearly a parcel but my initial excitement is soon squashed when the driver hurries up to the door of Unit 1.  I hope Paul enjoys his delivery. (He probably gets more Christmas cards than we do, too!)

Tuesday, December 10

 I can't put it off any longer so this morning I put on my outdoor shoes and headed off to water the garden.  It's a regular chore in the warmer months and not one I pretend to enjoy.  This morning, though, was surprisingly pleasant.  All the time I was in the back yard, there was a young magpie sitting on a fencepost next door singing his heart out.  I've waxed lyrical about magpies in the last and they are still my favourite bird. 

There were three Christmas cards in yesterday's mail. I had thought the days of sending cards back and forth was over but, apparently, some of our older citizens continue to do it.  We only send a handful of cards; instead, I'm in the habit of writing a Christmas letter which I email to as many of my contacts as I can with only a few being printed.  I look forward to any responses which come in.  It reassures me that our various friends are still alive, for one thing.

Last year, for some reason, I only had one response. Has everyone else died?  And now I'm faced with the dilemma of what to do this year.  Do I ditch the letter and see what happens? Or do I carry on as before?

It's like this blog ... eight or nine people seem to read it most day and I have no idea who many of them are.  Why on earth do they persevere?  What interest could they possibly have in my meanderings and why don't they let me know who they are?  It's like an actor performing to an audience hiding behind a curtain .. unnatural.

Monday, December 9

 We've been in this unit for over four years so I suppose it's time for a bit of a change.  We've got rid of a bit of furniture and re-arranged the rest but we realised that more needed to be done.  The focus of all the furniture in the lounge-room is the TV; we might pretend that we don't watch much but the reality is that it's on in the morning before we have breakfast and is turned on again about 7 o'clock at night.  It would be silly not to arrange the chairs in the lounge to accommodate that.

In fact, my chair did not face the TV; I needed to slouch sideways to look at the screen and this was causing me some pain in the shoulder.  Something needed to be done.

Yesterday was the big day.  We recruited Jamie to do the hard labour and it wasn't a big problem. There are some dints in the carper which will disappear in time but the real issue is how to get power to our electric recliners.  Most of the cables will go under coffee tables and so on but we'll need mats for some areas.

And little mats are a problem!  I'm becoming so bumble-footed I tend to stumble on smaller mats and we could all see disaster ahead.  Large pieces of loose carper seem not to be such a problem so this might be the way to go.  I've discovered that Temu sell mats so I'm spending this morning on the internet.

AMONG MY SOUVENIRS                                                                     MAY 5, 2023

I can understand why many people collect souvenirs.  They are great reminders of good times and can evoke wonderful memories of places they have seen and people they have met.    Most people look for souvenirs which they can put on display for guests to appreciate.  Visitors with the barest of good manners will know that they are expected to notice the hand-carved native spear on the coffee table and make a comment which the host will grasp onto as an invitation to launch into another story about his travels. We all understand there is nothing better than an unusual object to elicit a conversation and everyone who has travelled is usually keen to share their experiences with anyone and everyone who will listen.

If one of the reasons for collecting souvenirs is to use them as a way of opening a conversation about interesting places in the world that you have visited, it is important to select an object which will catch attention: something which is exotic or eye-catching, which suggests there is an interesting story attached. 

My wife and I are unusual in that we don’t go out of our way to collect souvenirs from places we’ve been.  I like to say that we adhere to the admonition, “Leave only footprints, take only memories” but the reality is we’ve never been interested in collecting more stuff to clutter up our lives.  Even so, we still find ourselves owning many objects which remind us of our past adventures.  Photographs, of course, are wonderful in provoking memories and we have albums of these stored in the bottom of one of our bookshelves. And, without looking too hard around our lounge room, I note that there are a couple of exotic blue Japanese vases and other reminders of our many trips to Asia and there is a bowl of beautiful shells collected from a beach in the southern part of the Philippines.  Somewhere we have a Russian doll purchased in Vladivostok, an unframed mandala from Pokhara, and a scarf in my family’s tartan bought on the Royal Mile in Edinburgh.

When we’re with friends, we tend to resist talking about where we have been. Perhaps it’s shyness on our part, or perhaps it’s that we don’t want to be seen to be flaunting our good fortune in having been able to see places that others haven’t. Having said that, we are certainly not reticent in talking about our adventures if the opportunity presents itself and our audience is not too reluctant to listen.

Looking around at the souvenirs that I have gathered over the years, though, I realise that even the most evocative of them will rarely attract the attention of a visitor and it is unlikely that any will be a conversation-starter for an anecdote.

The souvenir that I have sitting on my desk as I write these words is a stone - a pebble - less than 4cm long and 3 wide, roughly egg-shaped.  It’s a metamorphic rock, mostly grey with brownish patches and an indistinct strip of pinkish material through the middle.  It has clearly been collected from a beach or riverbank as it has been worn smooth by many years of being rolled around in water with other rocks.  I’ve had it for more than 70 years and, in all that time, when it has been on my desk or elsewhere on display, no one has ever picked it up to comment on it or to ask what it represents.

If anyone had ever noticed this pebble, I might have told them its history.  It was picked up from a beach in a small fishing village called Johnshaven in NE Scotland.  I was there with my mother and my brother visiting my father’s family before travelling to Australia to start our new lives.  The weather was sunny and I decided that I wanted to swim in the ocean.  It was, in fact, the North Sea, and I had no idea how cold it would be.  There was no sand on the beach; it was just a mass of water-worn rocks, large and small, and I can still recall the sound of the rocks as they clattered together through the action of the waves.

With my bare feet, I tip-toed carefully over the rocks and allowed the water to creep up my legs until the waves came past my knees and touched the hem of my swimming costume.  Bravely, I splashed some water up over my chest and hurried back to the beach where my mother wrapped me in a towel until my teeth stopped chattering.  I picked up this rock from the beach as a souvenir.

The word ‘souvenir’ is French and means ‘to remember’.  That tiny rock certainly fulfils its purpose in helping me relive that otherwise forgettable event.

 

 

Sunday, December 8

We turned on the TV this morning and opened YouTube to see if we could find something interesting.  One of our favourites in Steve Marsh who lives in Montrose in Scotland and he and his wife were in Rome.  We've never been to Rome so stayed with that program to see what it was like.  A few early realisations: even in the Autumn when the video was made, it was busy; it would be hard work walking around on the cobbled streets; there was nowhere to sit down and there seemed to be building going on everywhere; everything seemed to be very expensive.

Do we regret missing out on Europe in our travels?  Perhaps, but circumstances steered us towards Asia and we have wonderful memories and no regrets.  Is it too late to go now? All in all, it is probably easier and more sensible now to see these places through someone else's eyes and without all the hassle.  I know there are people of our age who are still getting on a jet plane and flying to exotic destinations but that's not for us.  We prefer to do our travelling through Youtube.

Saturday, December 7

 On the day we moved into this unit Marilyn and I went to a local cafe for dinner.  It's called Stickybeaks and is right on the main junction in the town.  I've written about it before; about the laminex tables and old-fashioned menu.  However, there were a couple of women at another table and one spoke up to ask whether we were newbies to the town.   When she heard we had just bought a unit, she was keen to tell us about her business: a shop in the town which sells women's clothes.  The woman with her, in fact, was her buyer from Melbourne, where she sources all her clothes. 

We found the shop, in our tiny little shopping centre, right beside the checkout of the supermarket.  It's called Wisteria Lane.  Marilyn loves the shop and is always browsing to see what's new.  She wondered why it was called Wisteria Lane so I googled it.  Wisteria Lane, it turns out, is where all the characters in the TV show Desperate Housewives live.

I've worked out the business plan of the dress shop.  Situate it as close as possible to where most of the desperate housewives in Longford are expected to be at least once a week - the supermarket.  Fill the windows with exotic fashions from overseas (Melbourne) and have good window displays and racks of specials out the front.  Only buy a small number of each style so it's unlikely a buyer would see the same dress on a neighbour.  It's a winning formula, I think.  Marilyn has bought quite a bit there and is always delighted.

But I'll stick to Temu.

Friday, December 6

 I've been reading a book called Thinking in Numbers by Daniel Tammett, a mathematical prodigy.  He mentioned one of his heroes is G.H. Hardy, a major number theorist (whatever that is) who wrote about his cricket 'dream team'.  It included Hobbs, Archimedes, Shakespeare. M Angelo, Napoleon (capt), H Ford, Plato, Beethoven, Johnson (Jack), Christ (J) and Cleopatra.

I decided I would compile my own 'dream team' from 'heroes' of my teenage years.

Sellars, P; Hillary, E; Bannister, R; Everley, D; Everley, P; Bader, D (Capt); Landy, J; Cleese, J; Milligan, S; Johns, WE; Humphries, B; Dickens, C (Res.)

IN SEARCH OF A HAPPY ENDING                                                       SEPTEMBER 25, 2023

The Prince realised that things had started to become unstuck on their wedding day.  He was so used to being referred to as Prince Charming that he had forgotten that he would have to be married under his given name and Ella’s reaction when the celebrant intoned, “Do you, Algernon, take this woman ….?” was less than sensitive.  She could, at least, have saved her splutter of laughter until they were back in the privacy of the palace.  He would have been able to explain to her that Algernon was only a family name and he rarely used it, and then only for official documents.

Of course, his mother professed to love the name and insisted on using it whenever she  came to visit.  It was like a bludgeon to remind him that he was still her little boy and not the celebrated leader of the most prosperous kingdom on this continent.

“Algernon, it’s so lovely to see you, Algernon, and your lovely wife, er, umm Ella.  Come and give your mommy a big kiss, Algernon.  Mummy has been missing her favourite boy.”

Ella had been less than nice about Algernon’s relationship with his mother. Surely, the Prince thought, Ella should know that mothers often failed to realise that their little boys have to grow up some time.  It was not that he wasn’t up to the job of being Prince of this kingdom.  Oh, he was aware there were rumblings from the peasants but the Prime Minister seemed to be keeping those rumblings under control, at least for the time being.

And, anyway, Ella shouldn’t look so smug.  It hasn’t been that long since she was Cinderella and making her living cleaning the fireplaces of her betters.  It’s true, she has a pretty face but that’s not enough to warrant marrying a Prince of Royal blood and being able to live in the most luxurious palace in the kingdom.  She’s had no education, never read a book, can’t speak a word of any foreign language and is flummoxed by the questions on even the dumbest of quiz shows.

Oh, how nice it would be if we could have an intelligent conversation which didn’t include references to the Kardashians or the latest beauty treatment.

The real problem is that, since he brought Ella to live in the palace, she has been enjoying the lifestyle here just a little too much.  She’s probably never previously had three meals a day and, with the good living, she’s becoming just a bit too chubby.  He shuddered to think how she might look in five or even ten years from now.

‘Marry in haste, repent at your leisure,” his father used to say.  He used to add, “A truer word was never spoken,” and that’s the truth.

He heard a timid knock at the door and Ella walked in.  Her eyes were red and she was obviously upset.

“We need to talk,” she said.  “We’ve been married nearly six months and I’m beginning to think I made a mistake.  I think you took advantage of me, and coerced me into marrying you before I had a chance to think it through.  If I had known what a pompous, shallow, Mummy’s-boy you were, I would have never agreed to be your wife.”

“I want a divorce.  We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.  If you agree not to contest the divorce and make sure I have enough funds endowed on me to live a comfortable life somewhere else away from this stifling palace, the scandal should all blow over in a few months and I promise you’ll never hear from me again.”

“Or, if you choose to be difficult, I will make sure your name is dragged through the mud and, when I’m finished, you’ll be forced to abdicate and find another job.  I wonder how the peasants would feel if I told them how you like to spend your evenings playing hanky-panky with the scullery maids, or how you have regular deliveries of Class A drugs come to the palace.  After all, it’s their taxes which pay for these indulgencies.”

“Maybe you’d have to change your name from Prince Charming to Prince Alarming.  I think that’s a better description at the moment, don’t you?”

As is expected in the world of Fairy Tales, things are not always as they appear.  But, when reality rears its unwelcome head, the story-teller must always find a way to reach a happy ending.  That is the case in this story too.  You’ll be pleased to hear that Ella received all she asked for, Charming was able to continue his indulgencies, his mother had her darling boy all to herself, and they all lived happily ever after.

Thursday, 5 December

 Marilyn and Jamie have been nagging me to find a new doctor.  Jamie's doctor has just opened a new surgery in Westbury which is only 15 minutes away and Marilyn has decided to go there too.  The doctor she had in Longford is on the verge of retirement and Marilyn found herself being fobbed off to junior doctors or locums whenever she needed to get advice.  

I've been stubbornly holding out but, when I rang the other day to get an appointment to talk about my bad back and was told the earliest I could see my preferred doctor was February, I decided to pull the plug.  I don't need to talk about anything serious but I'm not happy to wait for 6 or 7 weeks.

I know that, as the new practice gets underway, it will get busier but that's a bridge to be crossed another time.

Wednesday, December 4

I've tried to write this blog a couple of times this morning but I've been interrupted; first, by the Coles delivery and then by Marilyn announcing there was washing to be hung out.  Hanging out washing is my least favourite activity, and one of the more dangerous.  Because we only have a narrow back yard, there is no room for a Hills Hoist.  Instead, we have a rectangular frame which can fold down when not being used and when it's up, there's plenty of room for our few bits and pieces, even a couple of sheets.

However, it was erected to be at the right height for your average 5 foot 2 inch housewife, rather than the 6 foot 2 inch person who actually uses it, and the height is not adjustable.  Inevitably, I crack my head every time.  This morning, I happened to encounter one of the corner pieces which was sharper than I expected and I now have blood soaking into my hair and streaming down my face.  Bugger!

What's the solution?  Can the frame be raised a few inches?  Do I need to wear a helmet?  Can the washing be left until Friday so the cleaning lady can do it?

When I've recovered, I'll come to a decision.

Tuesday, December 20

 

Among all the dross and detritus which Black Friday dumped on my computer was this little poem.  I've managed to work my way through it so it all makes sense but I'm struggling with reading it out loud.  Just think, if we'd stayed in Scotland instead of coming to Australia, I might have ended up speaking like this.

BLACK FRIDAY   -    James Copeland                             

Oot behind a lorry
Payin’ nae heed
Ablow a double-decker
A poor wean deid.

Perra worn sannies
Wee durrty shoes
Heh, erra polis
Stand back, please!

Lookit the conductress
Face as white as chalk,
Heh, see the driver but
Cannae even talk.

Anyone a witness?
Naw, we nivir saw.
Glad ah’m no’ the polis
Goin’ to tell his maw.

Weemin windae-hingin’
Herts in their mooth
It’s no oor close, Lizzie
Oh, Gawdstrooth!

Screams on the landin’
Twa closes doon
It’s no’ wee Hughie!
Poor Nellie Broon.

Phone up the shipyards
Oh, whit a shame!
Yes, we’ll inform him
Please repeat his name.

See Big Hughie
Jokin’ wi’ the squad
Better knock off, Heug,
Oh, dear God.

Whit? No’ his laddie
Ah, bloody hell!
D’ye see Hughie’s face but?
He’s just a boy hissel.

Monday, December 2

 The 'silly season' is almost upon us.  Today will be the first of the Christmas events one or other of us feel obliged to attend; Marilyn is gathering her strength to get dressed up for her Probus Christmas Lunch.  The committee of her club decided it would be 'fun' if everybody wore a decorated Christmas hat so Marilyn spent yesterday putting together something appropriate for her head.  It has baubles and tinsel and ribbons.  The husbands aren't invited so I'll not have the pleasure of the enjoying the anticipated 'Hat Parade'.

It's the Men's Probus Christmas Barbecue next week and we've invited our wives to attend as well. There's been no suggestion that we wear funny hats or anything at all Christmassy.   Is it because the men are too insecure to wear funny hats or is it because we just have more natural dignity?  I know what I believe.

Today's story is Piano Man, based on a real event.

PIANO MAN                                                                                        NOVEMBER  3, 2023

I won’t introduce myself because, if all goes well, I’ll have a new title in a day or so, when I finish my training.  Yes, I’m on my last assignment and it’s going very well.  I’m a Trainee Guardian Angel and, for the next few days, I have to follow this old gentleman around, watch he doesn’t get into too much trouble and report back to my boss on his progress.

Perhaps, the best thing I can do is to let you have a look at this report I’ve written on an incident which has unfolded over the last few days.

REPORT ON SUBJECT CHR2572, SEPTEMBER 2015

DAY 1.  Subject is currently in the Philippines, travelling with friends in a car and has stopped at what seems to be a school.  The group of four individuals, including Subject CHR2572, enters the school leaving the driver of the vehicle behind.

The group is clearly engaged in a fact-finding mission as they are questioning various members of staff that they meet.  One woman has explained that the school is in need of much help and one significant issue is that they are very short of chairs for the students to sit on.  New students are asked to bring a chair from home but many local families are very poor and many don’t have a chair to spare.  She is asking that the provision of new chairs be a priority for any help that can be offered.

CHR2572’s host, whose name is Kit, is enthusiastic and proposes that she organise a function to raise funds to purchase chairs for this school which has been recently established by the community.

Later, Kit announces that she will organise a party at her home and invite the people who attend to contribute 700 pesos each to purchase a chair.

DAY 6  On the evening of the party, about 25-30 people are in attendance.  Kit has organised a karaoke machine and people are enjoying themselves, singing along to the music.  Without warning, Kit announces that there is to be a competition which will raise more money for the purchase of chairs.

She will invite CHR2572, whom she calls John, to sing a song of his choice.  His score will be recorded and, anyone else who would like to sing will endeavour to beat his score.  If the singer is unable to beat John’s score, he or she will be fined the cost of a chair.  There is great excitement as CHR2572 prepares for his performance.  He selects Piano Man by Billy Joel, a popular choice.  There is a buzz of conversation as people predict what his score might be: some of the more generous ones suggest scores in the 80s, others scornfully say 25 or 30. 

CHR2572 clears his throat and waits for the introduction of the song.  When the appropriate place is reached, he begins strongly, “It’s 9 o’clock on a Saturday ….”

There is a hush in the crowd as it is realised that CHR2572 has chosen a song which is well within his range and not too difficult to sing.  If he can just hold his nerve, he might well score in the high 80s or even in the 90s.  In any event, he will be difficult to beat.

“Sing us a song, you’re the Piano Man,”  the song reaches its climax and CHR2572 is showing no signs of losing control as he prepares for the big finish.  When the last note is sung, in John’s mind, pitch-perfect, the crowd erupts in generous applause.  Kit is starting to wonder if she made a mistake.  If John’s score is too high, people might be disinclined to attempt to beat it and her hopes of gathering enough funds for an extra 20 or 30 chairs might not be realised.

All talking ceases as people focus on the score which is appearing on the screen: it scrolls through the 40s, 50s, 60s, it’s going to be a good one, 70s, 80s, surely it won’t be in the 90s? … but it finally reaches 100!  The whole audience erupts in excitement.  This particular group enjoys karaoke frequently but 100 is a rare score.

Kit’s heart sinks.  Surely nobody will bother with the karaoke now that John has reached 100.  She needn’t have worried.  Everyone becomes intent on matching his score and Kit manages to raise more funds than she thought possible.  A total of fifty chairs were delivered to the school during the following week, making a huge difference to the children of that community.

CONCLUSION OF REPORT:  Subject CHR2572, is certainly showing signs of ageing but is still prepared to try new activities and is enjoying some success.  I’m hopeful that the current smug look on his face will subside in the next day or two.